


and still i will live here

by minecrafter42



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pre-Epilogue, chapter 2: they go see a therapist <3, deleted scene I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27342535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minecrafter42/pseuds/minecrafter42
Summary: After. It seemed like his life was defined by moments before and moments after. There were moments before, where everything didn’t feel like this. And there was the after, where he was Adam. He lived in the after.(adam and ronan after everything)
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66





	and still i will live here

**Author's Note:**

> please read these notes ! im gonna put a tw just in case -- heavy canon-compliant warning stuff (death, etc.) -- maybe minor depersonalization. thank you for reading ! more notes at the bottom

After.

It had always felt like Adam’s life passed by in snapshots of what would happen after. He defined his life by the moments that kept him alive, or kept him breathing. _After work I will go to school and after school I will go to work and after work I will do more work. After I leave my father I will feel like a person. After I graduate I will begin to live._ He lived his life in the past tense. There was no time for anything else.

Months ago, Adam Parrish gave away his hands. Days ago, they were taken from him. By the demon, if you could even call it that. It was a feeling more than it was a thing. If he thought too hard about it, Adam was sure he could taste it.

Thinking about the _during_ was a slow form of torture--a punishment for the loss of his automony. He had done this a million times before, sitting on his hands just to feel the prickle of his pulse beneath his skin, to remind himself that each finger still worked as they were supposed to. What went wrong? Adam had asked himself. _I lost control. I lay my hands on the people I am supposed to love because I lost control._ He smelled it from a mile away, read the code between his DNA like it was a genetic disorder. _I knew it was going to happen, and I did not stop it._

After. It seemed like his life was defined by moments _before_ and moments _after_. There were moments before, where everything didn’t feel like this. And there was the after, where he was Adam. He lived in the after.

After, he went back to school, mere days later. Cabeswater had died, but the entire world remained alive. No part of life favored Adam Parrish. And so after work he went to school and after school he went to work and after work did his Lit and Calc and Latin homework. It felt disgraceful, to return himself to the normalcy of life when his entire world had barely begun to breathe again. With Gansey reborn and Noah gone and Ronan unmade and then remade, alive beneath his fingertips. The thought burned him. He clenched his fists so tightly that his wrists ached with the force of it.

Adam had never known death before. He had grieved, but nobody he had ever known had died. That was before. After, he knew Whelk and Persephone and Aurora and Noah and Gansey and Jesse Dittley and almost, almost Ronan.

They didn’t talk about it, ever. They spoke about their friends and their parents and all of the horrible things that Ronan had endured these past few months, as Adam sat quietly and offered everything he wished he could give Ronan. They talked about everything but this, even though Adam desperately wanted to. This was his own weight to bear. It would simply be another way for him to claim his independence. But he wondered, silently and achingly, how Ronan could forgive him for it.

It was early morning when Adam decided he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore. He had never understood insomnia until now.

His shift began soon enough. _After work,_ he thought to himself, as he did a million times, _I will go to school. After school I will go to work. After work I will do more work._

But he missed Ronan desperately, fearfully, horribly. It was hard for Adam to place the feeling, to dig it up and examine it from each corner. That was what made it fearful and horrible at the first place. Adam stood on the edge of a precipice, shuttered behind a window as he stared through the glass at Ronan Lynch. He had always thought Ronan was invincible, immortal, indestructible. How strange, it felt, to be proven wrong. Ronan was as fragile a creature as any. As painfully human as any. This realization did not leave his mind. He needed Ronan to be okay.

Love, was the word, if Adam had been anybody but Adam. He had never realized how easy love could come to him until he had met Ronan.

Adam went to work.

\------

Sometimes, Adam liked to believe Henrietta was the darkest place in the world. The brights on his shitty car didn’t even begin to pierce through the blackness of the road ahead of him. He drove slow, for this reason, the country station spitting its familiar twang from his radio as he navigated the narrow road to the Barns. He had not planned on coming here, but his body had led him, and for once, Adam listened.

Parking in the driveway, Adam threw his door open, slamming it behind him as he stepped out into the night. The world around him was as loud as he felt, frogs and locusts chirping into the darkness. Adam’s pulse roared in his ears, cocking his head around for some sign of Ronan. Nothing.

For a moment, Adam felt sick to his stomach. What was he thinking, out here in the dark, stomping through Ronan Lynch’s domain like he belonged there. Sometimes he wondered if the air here was dreamt, with the way it weighed down his lungs. Ronan’s dream objects always seemed to have that quality—completely human apart from their inordinate mass. Adam heaved another breath through his lungs and leaned against the side of his car, staring ahead of himself. His headlights had yet to turn off, and they doused the dead gray grass in red light.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ Adam asked himself, and then wondered why the entire world felt so different. Ronan was one of his best friends, before he was anything else. But Adam felt on edge tonight, nervous. Angry, more than anything. He always seemed to be angry.

It got the best of him, and Adam wondered if that ran in his family, too. “Fuck,” he muttered, kicking up the gravel in the Barns’ driveway. The rocks clattered to the ground as Adam fidgeted with his keys once, twice, playing with the handle of the driver’s side door. For a brief moment, he wondered why he had come empty handed. And then he wondered why he had come at all.

“What the fuck?” Split through the air the same moment Adam scuffed his heel through the driveway again. His pulse rose, and Adam toyed with each individual finger. _They’re yours_ , he tried to tell himself. _They belong to you._

Ronan stood in the beam of the headlights, glowing red in the night. He was a shadow, tall and lithe and intimidating to anyone but Adam. Slowly, every part of Adam’s life had become Ronan. The chipped paint in his apartment or the motor oil at Boyd’s or the exit 57 sign that he drove past every morning. And now it was the color red, the crisp bite of spring air on his shoulders, and fucking rocks.

Adam was losing his goddamn mind.

“Parrish,” Ronan said, stepping into his space. He moved soundlessly, impossibly, a cartoon supervillain. “Messing up my driveway?”

It hurt to look at him. “Ronan, I-”

“Get inside,” he said, tilting his head toward the door to the main house, “You’re gonna get eaten alive.”

Adam considered this for a moment, knew that Ronan knew that it was far too cold for mosquitoes. Then, he obeyed, following Ronan as he stalked up the steps. They creaked beneath his bare feet, and creaked again as Ronan turned to look back at Adam, illuminated under the porchlight. He smiled at him through the darkness, and Adam found himself smiling back, wrapping his fingers around his arms and squeezing, just to feel his skin beneath his fingers. Each part of the Barns was another piece to understanding the strange amalgamation of things that was Ronan—boy and dream and dreamer.

“It’s late,” Ronan said. They stood in the hallway, facing each other, except Adam looked at the ground. He knew Ronan was staring back at him, knew how badly he wanted to stare back.

The strangest part of this was that he _could_ stare back if he wanted to. Ronan knew how Adam felt; he definitely felt the same way. But Adam wanted this so much it hurt him. He tried not to want anything too hard, but he wanted this, wanted this, wanted this. So badly that he could drown in the feeling. If he weren’t so terrified to look at Ronan--to touch him in fear of holding on too tight—he could eat him alive.

They were silent, for a moment, the air heavy. And then Ronan stepped into Adam’s space, not touching, not speaking. Just looking. Adam let his gaze rise to Ronan’s face, to everywhere but his eyes. He drew a line from his brows to the curve of his nose, the bow of his lips. Down to the bruises on his neck. They still made Adam nauseous.

Once, when Adam was very young, his elementary school teacher had given him a project for Father’s Day. It was simple: bring home a piece of clay, ask him to press his hand into the clay, bring it back the next day. The school would handle the rest. Adam had done as he was told, as he always did. He didn’t remember _how_ his father had complied. No matter how many times he tried to conjure a memory of Robert Parrish—younger and no less horrible—smoothing his hand into a piece of clay, the memory was gone. And despite the concrete evidence, Adam didn’t think his father was capable of doing any such thing. He wondered how it hadn’t melted beneath his father’s touch.

Adam had found the tile in his room months before he moved out, as he lay on the floor, afraid of moving. It had fallen beneath a radiator, and Adam fished it out, burning one of his fingers against the hot metal in the process. And it was just as he had left it—a piece of clay,  
forever indented with Robert Parrish’s hand—reading _Happy Father’s Day!_ in the miserably bubbly handwriting of a first or second or third grade teacher. Before he threw it away, Adam had pressed his hand into the shape of his father’s, fitting the mold as well as one could. Everything was the same, but his fingers were slimmer. It had made Adam physically sick, ignited something inside of him that he wished he would never feel again. How he shared half of his father’s genes and would until he died.

He felt like that now, as he eyed the bruises on Ronan’s neck. They were Adam’s, and would always be Adam’s. He let out an unsteady breath.

“Goddamn it,” Ronan said, jerking Adam to the present. “Why won’t you look at me, Adam.” And somehow it hurt even more, now that he was  
_Adam_ and not _Parrish_ or _asshole_.

“I can’t look at you,” Adam knew it was the wrong thing to say.

It was silent, again. Now, Adam let himself look.

Before all of this, they never would’ve had this conversation. Adam had never felt freer than he did, during the days before the unmaking.

After, he leaned against the wall, staring at Ronan, who stared back. He felt the pressure of tears, at the front of his cheeks. He knew he would not cry, but the suffocating breathlessness occupied his lungs regardless.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Adam said, but it was not bitter. It came out a sob, an empty sort of thing. “Jesus Christ, what the hell.”

 _This is eating me alive, Ronan,_ he wanted to say. He did not. It felt too dramatic.

Two of Ronan’s fingers met Adam’s gaze on his throat. Days ago, Adam felt his pulse beneath his fingers, watched his eyes widen. Now, they lingered along the bright green edges of the mark, pulling at the skin there.

Paint, motor oil, the interstate, red. Would Ronan always remind Adam of death, too? Of the horrible stench of unmaking and blood and breath.

“ _I’m so sorry,_ ” Adam barely sounded like himself.

“What the fuck,” Ronan said, “You already said sorry.”

“I need to say it again,” Adam looked at him, at how horrible he looked. And for a moment, Adam considered Ronan Lynch, treaded over the fact that he was motherless, fatherless, a god in a world that no longer needed one.

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m sorry, Ronan,” Adam said, and his body ached. He wanted so much: to fix this, to make Ronan happy, to make Ronan better.

“It’s alright, Parrish, god,” Ronan said, but Adam knew better. Ronan’s fingers pressed into his throat, his clavicle. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

This made Adam silent. It reminded him of all the times he had done the same, two fingers pressed into the wound just to prove a point. It was different, though, coming from Ronan. He had never been one to lie.

“I was killing you.”

“It’s the first time you’ve failed, then,” it was a sorry attempt at a joke. Adam didn’t laugh. _How can you forgive me god how do you still look at me after this._

Adam dug the tips of his fingers into his eyes until he saw colors. Ronan just stared at him, in the way that Ronan seemed to stare only at him. His gaze was dense and tired, his pupils wide as he frowned at Adam.

“Hey,” was all he said. And then Adam’s hand was sandwiched between Ronan’s. His heart thrummed in his throat as he kept his fingers moving slowly, slowly, beneath Ronan’s touch, just to affirm that he could move them. Ronan was looking at him, biting the inside of his cheeks. “Fuck- it was never fucking you, Parrish, god.” He sounded angry, but Adam knew better. “Stop saying sorry. I know you’re sorry.”

“I was killing you, Ronan.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“I was hurting you.”

“Yeah, fuck, okay. It’s okay, I’m okay. I don’t fucking lie, Adam. You know me.” He brought his right hand from where it was stacked on Adam’s to his face, tracing the outline of Adam’s brow, rubbing circles into the bruised skin there. Ronan traced a scab with his fingers, his touch gentler than any human could expect a creature like Ronan Lynch to be. He tucked a hair out of Adam’s face, running his finger down his jawline before bringing it back down to his hands. All Adam could focus on was his breathing, the unsteady sound of his exhales into the silence. Ronan’s gaze was intent, solemn, earnest. It felt strange, for Adam to fall apart like this, nearly shameful, if it weren’t for Ronan’s silent understanding.

His breathing was labored, his gaze determined as Ronan brought Adam’s right palm to his lips. “These are your hands,” he said, and curled his index finger around Adam’s wrist. His heart hurt, with the forgivingness of the gesture. It didn’t seem fair.

And then Adam’s hands were around Ronan’s neck, his touch gentle and tender, held there only by Ronan’s grasp. Holding his breath, Adam looked Ronan in the eyes, and Ronan looked back. For a few moments, he held him there. And for a few moments, Adam realized he wanted Ronan for the rest of his life.

“I’m going to let go,” Ronan said. Adam simply nodded, wide-eyed.

Ronan dropped his hand from Adam’s, where it rested on his neck. It felt as it always had, Ronan’s pulse heavy against Adam’s fingertips. He didn’t move, afraid to crush the life beneath his hands.

They waited there, for a few moments, Adam’s fingers resting on Ronan’s neck, not moving, not killing. Not doing anything.

Adam felt like crying. He did not.

Instead, he traced his fingers up Ronan’s neck, stroking the bone of his jaw, his thumb tracing Ronan’s lips. He was soft beneath Adam’s hands, pliant, as they’d been on that horrible night, as they had been days before. It reminded Adam that he was alive, too, that he had a pulse. And then Ronan took Adam’s knuckle into his mouth, and Adam fell apart.

He buried his hands into Ronan’s shirt, pressing his face into the skin between his neck and his collarbone. They held each other, for what could’ve been seconds or minutes or hours, Adam’s fists balled into Ronan’s shirt and Ronan’s hands tracing the knobs of Adam’s spine. They breathed together, one single creature, as Adam whispered, _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ against Ronan’s skin and Ronan breathed heavily into Adam’s.

Before, Adam never thought he would be this close to anyone. It was uncharacteristic for him to love. Depending on who you asked: he was too occupied, too future-oriented, too dangerous. He was just like his father or he was nothing like his father in the worst way. Simply, he was Adam Parrish.

They untangled from each other, finally, for a few moments, before Adam looked at Ronan. His eyes were hollow, sad, exhausted. But they were his eyes, and his hands on his back. It was Ronan, Ronan, Ronan. That was all Adam ever needed.

Adam wrapped his arms around Ronan again, drawing him into a kiss. It was so, so gentle. A shadow of the kisses they had shared before. But it felt like _more_ to Adam, and certainly as real as anything he had with Ronan before. Under the old glow of the Barns’ lamps, Ronan’s face was soft, his features barely visible to anyone but Adam. And then Ronan pushed back against him, and Adam felt alive. His heartbeat had slowed down, slightly, and he brought Ronan closer, stroking the hairs at the back of his neck, feeling the sturdiness of his body against him.

He pulled back, and Ronan smiled, a quiet sort of expression, and Adam softened at that.

“I really, really like you, Ronan,” he said, and buried his face in his skin. He wanted this, and he would be allowed to have it.

“God, Adam,” was all Ronan said. And it was enough, for tonight. It would be enough, for forever, if that was all Ronan was able to manage. Adam kissed him again, knew it wouldn’t alleviate the reality of Cabeswater or his mother or the world around him, but hoped it would. For just a few moments, it was allowed to be okay.

Before: Adam, Ronan, a king, a demon. Adam’s hands on Ronan’s neck.

After: Adam, Ronan. They belong to themselves, each other. An unspoken apology. A life to relive.

**Author's Note:**

> omg hi if u r reading this youre hot and sexy and i want to go out with you. anyways thanks so much for reading this its probably so shit but ive literally been obsessed with these books since fifth fucking grade so i decided its time for me to live out my eleven year old dreams and write something for my dumb little adam-projecting self. title if from i will by mitski because im gay. xoxoxo minecrafter42 hope u all have a nice night please let me know how you percieve this piece of garbage maybe ill make a tumblr soon and really come full circle okay bye love u mwah  
> update: i made a tumblr lmfao its @minecrafter42 also.


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